Valia approached the window and examined the toys. They were wretched paper horses with straight, thick legs, Punch with a red cap on, with an idiotically grinning face and a large nose, and little tin soldiers with one foot raised in the air.
Valia had long ago given up playing with toys and did not like them, but from politeness he did not show it to his mother. “Yes, they are nice toys,” he said.
She noticed the glance he threw at the window, and said with that unpleasant, ingratiating smile:
“I did not know what you liked, darling, and I bought them for you a long time ago.”
Valia was silent, not knowing what to reply.
“You must know that I am all alone, Valia, all alone in the wide world; I have no one whose advice I could ask; I thought they would please you.” Valia was silent.
Suddenly the muscles of the woman’s face relaxed and the tears began to drop from her eyes, quickly, quickly, one after the other; and she threw herself on the bed which gave a pitiful squeak under the weight of her body, and with one hand pressed to her breast, the other to her temples, she looked vacantly through the wall with her pale, faded eyes, and whispered:
“He was not pleased! Not pleased!—”
Valia promptly approached the bed, put his little hand, still red with the cold, on the large head of his mother, and spoke with the same serious staidness which distinguished this boy’s speech:
“Do not cry, mama. I will love you very much. I do not care to play with toys, but I will love you ever so much. If you wish, I will read to you the story of the poor water-nymph.”